


Heart of Winter

by RosalindSparrow



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: BAMF Harry, F/M, Original Characters - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-09
Updated: 2014-02-13
Packaged: 2017-12-22 22:28:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/918750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RosalindSparrow/pseuds/RosalindSparrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sole survivor of the mysterious fire that destroyed Godric's Hollow, Harry Potter is taken in by Lord and Lady Stark and raised with their own children. The last heir to a strange and seemingly doomed House, Harry is determined to uncover the truth behind his parents' deaths, however ominous, despite numerous warnings that some things are better left unknown. Could the dark secrets of the Potters help him win the game of thrones?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prelude

**Author's Note:**

> Want to listen to the epic soundtrack while you read? You'll find it right here: http://8tracks.com/rosalindsparrow/heart-of-winter

_"Like an iceberg in the ocean, we have hidden strengths below,_

_That are formed in life's cold waters from our tears of melting snow._

_So the heart that beats within you, as it pulses, like a star_

_Must not forget those winters... for they made you what you are."_

_-_ Rod Walford _, Heart of Winter_

_**IN THE FAR NORTH OF WESTEROS** , farther even than the old walls of Winterfell, miles into the Wolfswood, on the northern bank of Long Lake, once stood the castle of Godric’s Hollow, ancestral seat of House Potter. Its walls and high towers had been built centuries before from the pale grey stones of the great mountains to the west, and although Godric’s Hollow was not the oldest, the biggest, nor the highest castle in the Seven Kingdoms, or even in the North, its beauty was undeniable – its construction an assemblage of harmonious angles and symmetry, its towers and turrets tall and lean with perfect curves of polished stone. In the summer, its proud shape reflected in the lake, still like a mirror, and trees surrounded it so closely that they almost seemed part of the architecture itself. When the branches bent under heavy snows and the lake froze over, Godric’s Hollow took an air of peaceful majesty, of sleepiness, as if suspended in time. The black banners with the white phoenix of House Potter floated from its towers all year long, and hung proudly on its walls during the warmer season. But the cold, northern beauty of Godric’s Hollow gave no indication to the tragic fate of the House that inhabited it._

_House Potter was one of the oldest families in the realm. Legend said that long ago, in the Age of Heroes, they had been sorcerers, powerful warriors with magic coursing through their veins. The first Potter, a certain Godric – the same one who had later built the beautiful castle of Godric’s Hollow – was said to have been an ally of Bran the Builder, although not an ordinary man, but one born from the union of a First Man and one of the Children of the Forest. Old tales told of how Godric Potter had helped build the Wall with spells and sorcery, of how he had taught witchcraft to the people of the North and performed unspeakable acts in the name of strange gods and mysterious forces, spraying the blood of innocents on the frozen northern lands. And this magic had been passed down through his bloodline, legend said. The Potters were seemingly almost impossible to kill and lived to be very old, which had earned them their sigil, the phoenix._

_But those were nothing but legends, and Westeros is rich in legends, some of them a thousand times more violent and outrageous than the story of Godric Potter and his unholy powers. Yet, it was still firmly believed among the people of the realm that the Potters were descendants from ancient sorcerers, and that some members of the family possessed great powers, if only one every few generations. But the Potters would only smile when you mentioned this at their table and pour you another cup, for House Potter was one of modesty and integrity, the values of the North. If they did have otherworldly powers, they never used them in obvious ways, and they never sought to rule any kingdom, remaining faithful bannermen to the Starks, to whom they had been sworn for centuries. They usually wed other northerners, mostly among the Starks, the Umbers, and the Blacks, and often greeted the Black Brothers of the Night’s Watch on their journeys to and from the Wall with grace, hospitality, a good bed and a warm meal. They mostly kept away from matters of the court, but would take arms if necessary to defend the North._

_Like too many stories of sorrow in Westeros, the downfall of House Potter started with a king. It started on the day a messenger came to Godric’s Hollow, with a summon from the court, demanding that Lord Harold Potter, his wife Eleanor, their eldest son Charlus, and their only daughter Kimbra head to King’s Landing. The message, bearing the unmistakable Targaryen seal, informed Lord Potter that King Aerys wished to promptly discuss the possibility of wedding his eldest son, Prince Rhaegar, to the beautiful Potter girl._

_Lord Potter was dubious. King Aerys rarely paid any attention to what happened in the North. He had, until then, seemed content to surround himself with southerners the like of the Lannisters, to which none of the northerners particularly objected. But the Potters had gained unwanted fame of late, or more precisely, Kimbra had gained attention when two of the Blackwood brothers had suddenly become rivals and resorted to fight to the death in an attempt to obtain her favour._

_At sixteen, although she had hardly ever left the North but to attend a few tourneys in the Riverlands, young Kimbra’s beauty was already well-known in the Seven Kingdoms. She had the slight, slender built and ebony hair of the Potters, and the large, dark eyes of the Blacks inherited from her mother’s side. Lord Potter, who was a noble and honest man, often scolded her daughter, warning her that vanity is an ugly trait, but Kimbra was fresh as a rose, charming and naïve. She was full of joy at the idea of becoming Prince Rhaegar’s bride. She begged her father to accept the King’s invitation, but Harold Potter had no choice. He could not refuse, even though he deeply wanted to, even though he was suspicious. Rumours of King Aerys’ descent into madness had reached even the far halls of Godric’s Hollow and Lord Harold was not eager to fall into the king’s bad graces. The offer of a king is not something one can refuse. One can only accept and be grateful for the honour. And if it meant that his daughter might one day be queen of the Seven Kingdoms, he would take a leap of faith for her sake._

_And so the Potters travelled south to King’s Landing, unaware of the faith that awaited them there, because unknown to most people outside court, King Aerys was already negotiating to wed his son to Elia Martell of Dorne, and he had no intention of making Kimbra Potter the queen of anything, for he had heard about House Potter, too, and about their history. He had heard the legends and read the terrifying lore of Godric potter and his strange accomplishments. And for some reason, Aerys Targaryen had it in his mind that young Kimbra Potter was a sorceress who entranced young men with her beauty, forcing them into madness and bloodshed to satisfy her nameless, demonic gods. The king had no intention to let her approach his son lest he suffer the same fate than the two Blackwood boys, and almost as soon as Kimbra Potter set foot inside the Red Keep, he collected her pretty head to adorn the walls of his great castle. When her family protested, he locked them in a dungeon cell and showered them with wildfire until there was nothing left. Death by fire, they say, is the purest. Perhaps in his insanity, King Aerys thought it a kindness._

_But the Potter line was not yet destroyed, and King Aerys sometimes, although very rarely, like to think of himself as merciful. He allowed Lord Harold’s last living heir, his youngest son, to live, albeit stripped of all titles. James Potter, then only ten years old, remained safely fostered in Winterfell. Lord Rickard Stark, whose own mother had been a Potter, was full of anger. He raised the boy as his own son, waiting for the day when his people would take their revenge, because the North always remembers._

_The story of what had happened to the Potters spread quickly through the continent and terrorised the smallfolk and the noble Houses alike. It all went downhill from there, as King Aerys’ madness only increased. The following events, of course, are well-known. Prince Rhaegar wed Elia Martell, and some years later, abducted Lyanna Stark. The Starks confronted the Mad King, leading to Lord Rickard’s death, and that of his eldest son, Brandon. It was the last straw. The North rallied its forces, other kingdoms joined, and thus was born the rebellion that would eventually lead to King Aerys’ death and to Robert Baratheon taking the Iron Throne._

_When the war was over, the new king summoned James Potter to court. Now in his twenties, he had fought bravely against the Targaryen forces to avenge his family. King Robert restored all his titles and had him knighted as repayment for his courage and his family’s sufferings. Ser James thanked him, wed a southern lady that he had met in the Vale during the war, and promptly returned home, wanting nothing more than to raise his family in peace and quiet, and to forget the terrible fate of his loved ones._

_Never since was James Potter seen south of the Neck again. He remained faithful to the Starks, but refused to take part in any battle that might shatter his already fragile legacy. The other Houses knew, understood, and left him alone until time would eventually heal his wounds. Once again, the black and white banners could be seen hanging from the walls of Godric’s Hollow in the long summer, and when Ser James’ first son was born, when he looked into the green eyes of little Harry, he finally understood the meaning of House Potter’s words: Rising Again. The gods had given him a little phoenix, and for the first time in years, he felt hope._

_But the story of House Potter was far from over. Their downfall had started with fire, and it is also how it ends._


	2. The Phoenix

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Want to listen to the epic soundtrack while you read? You'll find it right here: http://8tracks.com/rosalindsparrow/heart-of-winter

 

 

 **LORD EDDARD STARK RECEIVED THE SOMBRE NEWS**  on the cold, cloudy morning of what would otherwise have been just another day in Winterfell.

It started with the Starks breaking fast in the long and airy Great Hall of the Keep. The bright, happy voice of his son Robb echoed in the vast and mostly deserted room as the boy recited for his parents what he had been learning from Maester Luwin for the past three days. The old master was teaching the Stark heir about the noble Houses of Westeros, and every time Robb heard one of them mentioned in conversation, he took it upon himself to remind everyone present of the history of that particular family. Jon had been allowed to attend the lessons too, but years of dark glances from Catelyn across the table had taught him to keep his mouth shut during meals. Little three-year-old Sansa sat next to her mother, ignoring them as she gracefully picked at the contents of her plate, muttering softly to a little wooden doll on her lap.

It was upon this scene that Maester Luwin stumbled, apologetic.

“Pardon me for disturbing your meal, my lord, my lady,” he said with a distraught look on his face. “But I am afraid a matter of great importance has arisen.”

Robb fell silent and ate sulkily, slightly annoyed at having been interrupted. Jon raised his head to stare at the scene with his dark, ever watchful eyes, looking quite solemn for a seven-year-old boy.

“What is it, Maester?” Ned Stark asked, frowning as he put down his knife.

The maester withdrew a parchment from the sleeves of his woollen robes and handed it to Ned with a pale, wrinkled hand. “A raven has come in the night,” he explained.

Ned took the message and unfolded it, immediately recognizing the red seal of House Umber. He was aware of his wife’s eyes on his face as he read. She saw his expression from curious to troubled in a matter of seconds, and his fingers trembled when he set the parchment down on the table.

 “Ned?” Catelyn asked, reaching out to put a hand on his arm.

“Dark wings, dark words,” Ned muttered, as his father used to say. He stared in silence as the message folded back on itself slowly, following the crease of the parchment. “A message from Lord Jon Umber,” he announced.

“House Umber!” Robb exclaimed from his place on his father’s left. “Seat, the Last Hearth,” he recited. “Sigil, a roaring giant. Words…”

“Not now, Robb,” Catelyn said gently.

Ned was quiet for a moment, then took a deep breath and spoke. “Greatjon writes that he went hunting in the Wolfswood on his son’s nameday. Some of his men chased game all the way to Long Lake, and there, they found Godric’s Hollow in ruins. Some walls are completely fallen, and the whole eastern wing destroyed. It seems it was ravaged by fire.” He fell silent, staring back at the message. The red string that had held it closed fluttered softly in a draft of air that coursed through the large room.

“Did anyone…?” Catelyn started asking, but she trailed off, surely horrified by the answer.

“They have searched the ground but could find no survivors. The ruins were still smoking,” Ned said weakly. He allowed his eyes to sadden for only a moment before looking up, confused. “This makes no sense. Fire could never burn a wall in Godric’s Hollow, let alone destroy a whole wing.”

“Indeed, it would not be possible,” Maester Luwin said quietly. “Not with natural fire…”

“Natural fire?” Catelyn asked, frowning. “What else could it be?” Ned heard something akin to fear behind her voice.

“Dragonfire?” suggested Robb, who was paying more attention to the conversation now that it concerned the great mystery of some horrifying event that took place north of Winterfell. “Like in Harrenhal?”

“The dragons are all dead,” Jon intervened. “Could it be wildfire?”

“I doubt it,” Ned said, rubbing his chin as he thought. “Wildfire spreads so rapidly it would surely have destroyed the whole castle, not just the eastern wing.”

“That is right,” said Maester Luwin wisely, although he seemed at a loss when it came to finding another hypothesis.

“Something queer has happened here. I must go and see for myself,” Ned added decidedly, standing up. “Maester Luwin, tell Jory he is to accompany me, and Ser Rodrik as well. We should leave in an hour.”

“Yes, my lord,” the maester said before leaving the Great Hall.

“Can I come with you, Father?” Robb asked, sitting up eagerly in his chair.

“No, Robb,” Catelyn said immediately. “Not this time.”

Ned smiled at his son’s enthusiasm, but he shook his head. “Your mother is right, Robb. Not this time. It is a long way to Godric’s Hollow. We might be gone for a week’s time, and we will travel too fast for your pony.”

“Can you see the Wall from Godric’s Hollow?” Jon asked quietly, inquisitive.

“No, Jon. It is not quite near enough. Now, I have some things to prepare before I go. Boys, take care of your sisters while I am away,” he said, looking gently at Sansa and thinking about one-year-old Arya, still with her wet nurse. He ruffled both his sons’ hair and walked out of the hall.

He paused outside, leaning against a wall, pondering the news he had just received. Robb’s words echoed in his head. From what he knew of Greatjon’s report of the scene, he would also have been inclined to blame dragonfire, but Jon was right. There were no more dragons. And wildfire would have spread and consumed the whole structure, leaving no ruins behind. But if it wasn’t either of those, what kind of fire could have been unleashed on Godric’s Hollow? The castle was deep into the Wolfswood. You could hardly glimpse it from the Kingsroad, and travellers were scarce in that region, even in the summer. A dull pain settled in his chest at the thought that the Potters had burned alive without anyone knowing…

When he looked up, he found that Catelyn had joined him, and she grasped his hands in hers. “I am sorry, my lord,” she said softly. “I know Ser James was like a brother to you.”

“I did not know him as well as Benjen did, but my father raised him as one of us,” Ned said. “Ser James was as much a Stark as he was a Potter. I owe it to him to find out what happened in Godric’s Hollow. And Benjen should be informed of this. I forgot to…”

“I will tell Maester Luwin to send a raven to the Wall for your brother, worry not. I have asked the servants to pack enough food for a week. Will that be enough?”

“More than enough. We will ride fast, and there are still inns along the…” Ned started to say, but he was suddenly preoccupied.

“What is it?” she asked.

He put a gentle hand on her bulging stomach, where, he hoped, another healthy son had been growing. “I don’t like the thought of leaving you now, when the little one could come any day,” he said. “If you ask me to stay, I will.”

Catelyn smiled and he saw love in her eyes. “Maester Luwin is here if I have need of him, and I know your son will wait until you return to come into the world. You have to go, Ned. It is like you said. You owe it to James.”

“His children…” Ned said, his throat tight with grief. “His eldest son was only a year younger than the boys. The youngest was only two… To die like that at such a young age, having barely known life…”

“Yes, it is terrible,” Catelyn said firmly, looking deep into his eyes. “And if someone is responsible for that terrible fate, you will find them, my love, and justice will be done.” She gripped his hands tightly to give him courage, and he stared back at her, determined.

“I will, he said. “On that you have my word.”

 

The riders left Winterfell before midday under a grey sky thick with clouds. As planned, Ned rode with Jory and Ser Rodrik, accompanied by three men from the household guard that Jory had insisted they bring along in case they came upon some trouble on the road. If Catelyn hadn’t been with child, Ned would have asked Maester Luwin to accompany them. His knowledge and wisdom would surely have been useful to determine the nature of what had occurred in Godric’s Hollow, but Ned would not take the risk. He would do his best to solve the mystery with the help of the men available to him. Catelyn needed the maester more than he did.

The walls of Winterfell formed a barrier against the northern winds, but outside, on the vast lands surrounding the Kingsroad, a cold breeze blew. It would only get colder as they headed towards Godric’s Hollow, he knew. They could only afford to stop at night, covering the most ground possible by day, and the men wore their best furs for the trip. But they were accustomed to the cold. They were northerners, and they had known worse. This was but summer chill compared to the raw, merciless, biting cold of winter.

“I am amazed that neither of the boys managed to haggle his way into this trip,” Ser Rodrik said as they trotted away to warm up the horses, his white whisked whipping around his chin with the movements of his mount.

“Oh, Robb tried to,” Ned said with a smile. “Jon would not dare ask, but I know he was dying to come as well.”

“They are both great lads, and they will be great men someday, my lord,” remarked Ser Rodrik, who taught them swordsmanship almost every day. “Jon is fast and already strong for his age. Robb is more playful. He doesn’t seem to take swordplay as seriously, but he will grow into it. He is only seven. So is Jon, but they say bastards grow faster than other boys.”

“That is what they say,” Ned said shortly. He disliked speaking of Jon’s birth and there was a cold edge to his voice. Ser Rodrik must have noticed because he said no more about it and they rode in silence from then on. Ned tried to push his sons out of his mind for the time being. Thinking about his family when he travelled only made him regret leaving. So instead, Ned found himself thinking about James Potter.

Having spent most of his childhood fostered by Jon Arryn with Robert Baratheon at the Eyrie, Ned had not known his own father’s wards very well. There had been James Potter, but also Sirius Black, Lord Orion Black’s eldest son. Like the Potters, the Blacks kept mostly to themselves, not because they meant to, but because their seat, Grimmauld Hall, was built in such unfriendly regions that hardly anyone, themselves included, was willing to cross the bogs and the swampy forest west of the Neck that separated them from the rest of the world. They wed close cousins and sometimes siblings in traditions similar to those of the Targaryens, giving little importance to what the realm might think of this practice. But old Lord and Lady Black were so unpleasant that no one really complained about Grimmauld Hall’s distant location. Sirius Black was almost a stranger to Ned, but he had gotten to know James Potter during the Rebellion.

Ned remembered a black-haired youth not much younger than himself, not very tall, but lean and strong, with dark eyes shining with wit and rage. James had loved Rickard Stark like a father, and saw in the Stark children – especially Benjen and Lyanna, with whom he had grown up – the siblings that had been taken from him so young. Losing the Starks had been like losing his family a second time, and to avenge them, he had fought proudly by Ned’s side under the direwolf banners when the rallied forces had marched south against the Targaryens.

James had fought with all he had, with the daring recklessness of one who has nothing left to lose. When the fight was almost over, James had followed Ned south, all the way to the Red Mountains of Dorne, to free their sister from the tower were Rhaegar Targaryen had been keeping her prisoner. There had been eight men in their party, but only three came out of the fight alive when they faced the three knights of the Kingsguard who kept the tower, and surprisingly, James Potter was one of them. He had seen Lyanna in her final moments, witnessed Ned’s grief, and given his word that he would never speak of what he had witnessed there.

Ned suspected that perhaps James had not really expected to survive the war at all. Perhaps he hadn’t really wanted to. But when it was all over, he was still standing. And Robert made him a Potter again, gave him back his home, and even put a “Ser” before his name. He seemed at a loss afterwards, unsure what to do with this new, unexpected life he had been given.

The last time Ned saw him, he was sitting casually on the front steps of the Red Keep’s entrance while everyone inside celebrated the end of the war. There was a blank, tired look on his face. Ned knew that look too well. It was dawning on him that revenge is vain after all, that the death and suffering of those who have wronged us does nothing to ease the pain, to fill the hole left by what was lost. Ned had felt the same way – bitter, empty, enraged by what terrible things had been done to win the Iron Throne, and still plagued by the loss of his family. James, Ned, and Robert all felt this way. It was a bittersweet victory. Jaime Lannister had killed the Mad King – a task they had all wanted for themselves. Unfortunately, Aerys Targaryen could only die once.

Ned had approached James, there on the steps, and the newly-knighted young man looked up at him with an uncertain smile.

“I don’t quite know what I should be doing now,” he had confided in Ned with a shrug before standing slowly, heavily, as if he were still wearing his full battle armour instead of the silk and painted leathers of the end of war.

“You will always be welcomed in Winterfell,” Ned had replied. “It will always be your home, no matter what comes.”

“Yes, I know,” James had said, and they had embraced like brothers for a long time, without speaking a word.

But James had never taken up on his offer. He had left King’s Landing the next day and rode for the Vale, where he had met a lovely maiden during the war. She was the youngest daughter of Lord Alderic Evans of Thornfort. When James found himself highborn once again, he rode to Thornfort and, with his titles restored and a castle of his own, asked Lord Alderic for his daughter’s hand. Ned remembered her. It was hard not to. She had been a beauty, with eyes shining green like wildfire. If he remembered correctly, she was a distant cousin of Catelyn from her mother’s side. She had the bright red hair of the Tullys. They eventually wed and James brought her north to Godric’s Hollow.

Since then, Ned had received ravens announcing the birth of the Potter’s children, as it was customary for noble Houses to inform their Lord of the arrival of any trueborn offspring, and Benjen brought news every time he visited Winterfell and stopped in Godric’s Hollow along the way. But neither James nor his wife had strayed very far from their home in the seven years since the war had ended. They certainly had visitors though. Ned had heard word from many inns and holdfasts near Winterfell that strange folks often stopped by for the night on their way to Godric’s Hollow. Most of them spoke foreign languages that the people of the North had never even heard of, wore their hair dyed in bright colours, and looked pitiful as they shivered in their silk clothing. Whatever business James Potter would have with these people, Ned could not even conceive.

 

At the end of their first day of riding, Ned’s party stopped at an inn less than two days away from Godric’s Hollow. They had travelled well and if they kept the pace on the morrow, he told himself, they would reach their destination in time. The innkeeper was honoured to host the Lord of Winterfell and his men in his humble establishment and insisted they have his best rooms free of charge, but Ned would have none of it and paid the man despite his protests. Before retiring to their rooms for a well-deserved rest, they headed into the inn’s dining hall for a warm meal and were surprised to find there one of Greatjon Umber’s men, who introduced himself as Colton.

“I’m heading south to King’s Landing,” he explained as Ned and his men joined him at his table. “Lord Greatjon is sending me to the King with news of the Potters’ deaths. I’d much rather he’d sent a raven, but he wants me there in case the King starts asking questions.” Colton was tall and muscular, with long hair and an impressive beard, but his voice revealed him as much younger than he looked. He was soft-spoken and the eyes under his thick, bushy eyebrows were bright blue.

“Were you with the hunting party that discovered the ruins?” Ned asked, curious. “We are heading to Godric’s Hollow ourselves.”

Immediately, Ned sensed a twitch in Colton’s demeanour. “Oh, you don’t want to do that, my lord,” Colton said, looking relatively calm, but with a tremor in his voice. “I would stay far away from that place if I were you. I’ve never seen anything like it before in my life.”

The men exchanged glances. Apart from the seven of them and the innkeeper behind the bar, the hall was empty. The only sound was the whistling of the wind outside and the crackling of the fire in the large hearth.

“What have you seen there?” Ned asked. “Why should we avoid it?”

“Didn’t Greatjon tell you none of it, my lord?” Colton replied, curling his large hands around his cup of mulled wine, as if searching for comfort.

“All I know is that there was a fire and that some of the walls have fallen.”

Colton snorted and shook his head. “Fallen? Those walls weren’t fallen, my lord. They looked like they’d been ripped right from the ground all the way to the foundations. Like a giant’s hand plucking a tree with the roots still attached. The stone was scorched black, and around where the eastern wing was, it had turned soft. I remember seeing children building sandcastles on the beach once, when I travelled south along the coast, and that’s what the stone was like. Greatjon touched it and it crumbled under his fingers like dust before drifting off into the wind…”

Colton might have seemed reticent to talk at first, but now that he had started his story, he couldn’t seem to be able to stop. His eyes stared fixedly into the fire as he spoke. It might have been the silence of the room, or the howling of the wind outside, or maybe Colton was just an excellent storyteller, but Ned found himself shivering even as he was safe and warm inside the inn.

“So you see, my lord,” Colton continued, “when I say that you shouldn’t go there, I mean what I say. It sends shivers down my spine just to think about it. Something dark has happened there, if you ask me. You feel it as soon as you set foot on the castle grounds. I don’t know what it is, but it creeps inside your chest and it hides there. I’ve had those strange dreams ever since I was there. I dream of a man who comes in the night, dressed all in black and without a face. He stands over my bed in silence, staring at me while I sleep. I yell at him to go, to get out and leave me be, and when I finally awake, I am drenched in sweat but frozen to my bones.”

Ser Rodrik, who was a sceptical man, cleared his throat carefully before he spoke. “Fire and death can put fear into the heart of any man, lad,” he said kindly. “But there is nothing in dreams that a man needs fear.”

“I’m not so certain about that,” Colton said, turning to stare directly at Ser Rodrik. “My brother was there too, and he’s been having the same dreams ever since.”

 

Ned was exhausted after the whole day of riding, but it took him a long time to fall asleep that night. When he finally drifted off, he slept fitfully, in short, confusing bursts of strange dreams. He dreamt that the walls of Winterfell were crumbling like sandcastles as the ghosts of the long-dead Kings of the North escaped from the crypt like billows of smoke. Then he dreamt that a horrendous giant came from beyond the Wall, its footsteps echoing like thunder, and plucked the Heart Tree from the godswood, mocking him in a deep, cavernous tongue as Ned tried to escape its grasp, stumbling away on stiff, heavy legs. The roots of the weirwood were soaked with smelly, crimson blood, and helpless cries came from beneath the earth as it was ripped from the ground. Then he found himself standing in the quiet Wolfswood, soft snow falling around him, thick and silent like balls of cotton. And Catelyn stood before him between the trees, calmly stroking her belly, but drenched in her own blood. She looked at him with Lyanna’s eyes and, in his sister’s voice, spoke the last words she had ever said to him. _Promise me, Ned…_

He awoke with a start as someone knocked loudly on the door. They were ready to leave soon, Jory announced, and some food waited for him in the dining hall. For a moment, Ned didn’t know where he was, and then he remembered. He was on his way to Godric’s Hollow. He was on his way to the ruins of James Potter’s life. He dragged himself out of bed, feeling as if he’d hardly slept at all, and dressed slowly. By the time he was downstairs and breaking fast with his men, he couldn’t remember having dreamt at all. The innkeeper informed them that Colton had left before dawn.

The day was strange. The howling wind from the night before had died, and the air was cold and still, their breaths coming out in little clouds of mist. They didn’t notice the fog until it was all they could see. It wrapped itself around them like a blanket. Soon, it was so thick that they couldn’t make out the road before them, and they guided themselves by the sounds of the hooves on the hard dirt. It made their horses nervous and did nothing to ease Ned’s growing feeling of dread.

“At this pace, we won’t reach Godric’s Hollow for another week!” Jory complained around midday as they wound their way slowly through the sinuous path that stretched itself narrowly through the Wolfswood.

“Perhaps we should head back, my lord,” said one of the men from behind Ned, apprehension in his voice.

“No,” Ned said firmly. “We have come all this way, we will keep going.”

In truth, he longed to go back as well, longed for the safety of the inn, or better yet, the familiar warmth of Winterfell. But he had given his word, to Catelyn and to himself, that he would reach Godric’s Hollow and find out what had occurred there. The fog was so thick that Ned could have sworn it was almost twilight, but behind all the clouds, the sun was nearing its zenith.

It was soon after that Ser Rodrik called out to them. “Stop, all of you. Listen.”

They stopped and listened. They could hear nothing at first. It was as if the fog impaired their ears as well as their eyes. But surely enough, they heard, in the near distance, the sound of hooves along with the hurried whining of cart wheels.

“Should we get off the road, my lord?” asked another of the men. “They are coming nearer and we can see nothing ahead.”

“Who goes there?” Ned called out. “There are six of us! Slow your pace!”

They all listened, but no voice answered. The sound of hooves and wheels was getting closer and closer, and their horses were getting restless.

“Halt! Who goes there?” Ned called again, but there was no answer. “Everyone, get off the road,” he said urgently.

They parted, half of them heading right and the three others scurrying to the left. The wooden cart that passed by them so hurriedly had seen better days. One of its wheels was loose on its axle, barely touching the ground, and it continued to spin on itself when the cart stopped suddenly on the road, a few feet past their party. It cleared the fog slightly in its path so they could clearly see when the cloaked man sitting hunched at the front of the cart straightened himself and looked around. Ned could not see his face under the heavy hood of his cloak, but he was aware the moment the man’s eyes settled on him.

“What were you yelling about in the fog, Ned Stark?” he asked. His voice was that of an old man, somewhat amused, and apparently not at all conscious of almost having caused great damage to their party.

“Who are you?” Ned asked coldly. He didn’t like being confronted with someone who knew much more than they were willing to let on, and he was in no mood to play games.

“My apologies if I have offended you, my lord. I mean you no harm,” the old man said more softly, letting go of the horse’s reins and jumping off the cart gracefully. “In truth, I was heading to Winterfell to find you.”

Ned’s hands went to his sword as soon as the man started approaching him, but he did not draw it yet. “And why is that?” he asked.

“I come from Godric’s Hollow, my lord,” the old man said, and the whole party fell silent, waiting to hear what he had to say. “I have recovered something that I would like to entrust you with for safekeeping.”

Ned stared at him, furious. “You have been salvaging the ruins?” he snapped. “You had no right. I will make no business with a thief. Ser Rodrik, seize this man!”

But before Ser Rodrik could dismount and obey, the man removed his hood, revealing his face. He was older than Ned would have thought. He looked years past the reasonable age to be roaming the Kingsroad on a broken cart at full speed. He had a long beard tied under his chin in an intricate braid, and equally long hair, both silver with age. His eyes were sparkling blue with wit and wisdom, and around his neck hung a chain forged with rings of different metals. It was a familiar sight that put the party at east, although Ned had yet to see one so long.

“There has been a misunderstanding,” the old man said kindly. “I am no thief, my lord.”

“You are a maester,” Ned said, confused. “What are you doing, roaming the Wolfswood on your own?”

 “It is just like I told you, my lord. I come from Godric’s Hollow, where I was maester to the Potters.” He looked around him quickly. The fog was closing in on them again, and it seemed to make him nervous. “My lord, please. It is urgent. Come quickly.” He headed back to the cart and gestured for Ned to approach.

Intrigued, Ned dismounted, nodding to Ser Rodrik to do the same, and the knight followed him back to the road and towards the old man’s cart. Inside, all they saw was a pile of rags and furs in a corner. Ned watched, bewildered, as the maester shook the bundle lightly and pushed aside a fur to reveal the small face of a child. The other men approached curiously for a closer look as the frightened green eyes of a little boy turned to the maester in confusion.

“Fear not, little lord,” the old man said gently. “These men mean you no harm.” And with surprising strength, the maester grabbed the little boy under his arms, pulled him from the cart, and settled him slowly on the ground for everyone to see.

Ned stared. The boy was dirty with soot, his hair dark as night, and eyes strangely familiar. He was slightly shorter than Robb and Jon, but looked only a year or so younger. His clothes were clean but too large for him, and he trembled on his feet under the glance of the whole party.

 “Is this… Is this one of James Potter’s sons?” Ned asked, astounded.

“Indeed, it is the eldest. This is young Harry, Lord of House Potter,” the maester said before turning back to the little boy. “Harry, this is Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell. He was your father’s friend. They were as close as brothers once. You will go with him now, little lord.”

They boy looked terrorized, and Ned saw one of his small hands grab at the maester’s cloak. “But I want to stay with you, Maester Albus,” he said in a whisper.

“You cannot stay with me, child. I have places to go and people to see. Lord Eddard will keep you safe,” the maester said, pushing the dirty locks of hair from the child’s face, and as he did so, Ned saw a jagged scar marring the boy’s forehead. The maester turned back to look at Ned. “I am afraid young Harry has not had anything to eat in a while. Perhaps one of your men could give him some food while we talk,” he said.

Ned nodded towards Jory who came forward and held out his hand for the little boy to take. “Come, little lord,” he said gently. “I have some sweet bread and honey for you.”

They watched as the boy took Jory’s hand hesitantly and the man led him to the left, where his horse stood next to the trees. Ned turned back to the maester. “Surely he has some family left,” Ned told him in a low voice. “I cannot take him if his mother’s sister…”

The maester grabbed Ned suddenly and pulled him to the side. Ser Rodrik drew his sword, but Ned held up a hand to stop him.

“You must keep him by your side, Lord Stark!” the maester said urgently. “It is of the utmost importance. You must bring him to Winterfell and raise him as your own son, just like your own father once raised James Potter. There is nothing left of House Potter’s legacy but this little boy. He has no family. His mother’s sister is not worthy of raising him. Godric’s Hollow is gone. It has been destroyed. The ground it once stood upon is damned. Nothing will ever grow or live there again.”

“What has happened there?” Ned asked. “How did he manage to survive?”

The man finally let go and Ned straightened up, nodding towards Ser Rodrik to let him know that all was well. “The castle burned in the night,” the maester said. “That is all you must know. Do not go there. Do not seek to find out what has happened there. Godric’s Hollow is no more, and that ends the matter. The boy remembers none of it, but one day, he will grow up and seek the truth, as you do now, and you must convince him never to go searching for it.”

“Why?” Ned asked again. “He has a right to know what killed his family. Why should he not go looking for the truth?”

The old man looked at him straight in the eyes, and for a long moment, Ned felt as if he were looking directly into his soul. “Because the truth would destroy him. Some things are better left unknown, my lord. Surely you know this, don’t you?”

And Ned was hit suddenly with an image of his sister’s face, of her fingers soaked with blood as she grabbed his hand. _Tell no one… Promise me, Ned…_

“You must keep him with you,” the maester said again. “He needs you. He needs to be raised in the North with his own people. And most of all, you need him. You need him more than you could understand if I were to try to explain it to you. If you should trust but one person in your whole life, Eddard Stark, trust me in this instant, and trust my words above all others. You need this boy by your side.”

Ned turned. Ser Rodrik was looking at him blankly, at a loss for words. Farther away, near the horses, Jory was giving bread to the little boy, who bit through it like a hungry wolf pup. When Ned turned towards the maester again, the old man was fumbling through the furs in the cart and unloading a traveller’s bag.

“This is all I could save when the castle burned,” he said, putting the bag in Ned’s arms. “There is not much in there. The clothes the boy is wearing were given to us by the generous folk who sold us the cart.”

“That is all?” Ned asked the maester, irritated, handing Ser Rodrik the traveller’s bag. “You will not tell me more about it all? I must take the boy and ask no more questions?”

“That is exactly what you must do, my lord,” the maester said, walking around to the front of the cart. “You must ride back to Winterfell as soon as possible. The boy is wounded on the shoulder and I could not save any of my remedies from the fire. There is also that scar on his forehead to look after. I am certain your Maester Luwin will take care of it as well as I could.” He climbed back on the cart with the grace and ease of a young man. “Farewell, now, Lord Stark. We will meet again. Have a safe return, and remember my words. Keep him by your side.”

With that, he grabbed the reins and his horse started galloping again, the cart disappearing quickly into the thick fog. Ned heard a sudden yell and turned around.

“No!” the little boy cried, dropping his bread and running from Jory and onto the road to follow after the cart. “Don’t leave me, Maester! Come back! Please!”

His voice broke Ned’s heart and he reached out to catch the boy before he could fall and hurt himself. “Hush, little one,” he said, holding the boy against him as the child started sobbing. “Have no fear. No one will hurt you now. I promise you. No one will hurt you as long as I live,” he whispered.

The others stayed silent as they watched him comfort the last Potter heir, unsure what to say or do. Ned closed his eyes and, holding the little boy, thought about what he should do next. Surely it was only because of what the old man had said, but he had the strange feeling that his decision, right in this instant, would determine the course of the rest of his life. He had made a promise to reach Godric’s Hollow and discover what had happened there, but the growing feeling of dread in his heart and those of his men was becoming impossible to ignore. And there was Catelyn and the child to come. And this little boy, who needed care and attention.

He stood decidedly, the chill still clinging to him. “The boy is wounded and needs healing. We are going back to Winterfell,” he announced. The fog was still thick and cold around them, but the faces of his men looked relieved to hear the news. “Ser Rodrik, I seem to remember that you carry a spare winter cloak with you?” he asked the knight.

“Yes,” Ser Rodrik answered. “I will fetch it for the lad.”

“Shall I have the little one ride with me, my lord?” Jory asked, leading his horse back onto the road.

The boy’s sobs had calmed by then, and he was silent now, his cheek pressed against Ned’s chest. “No, Jory. I think he will ride with me for now.”

 

They reached the inn again before nightfall and the innkeeper, surprised to see them back so soon, explained that some men on their way to the Night’s Watch were also present tonight, and that perhaps the Lord of Winterfell would prefer to spend the night somewhere else. Ned told him that it didn’t matter, that the boy travelling with them needed to rest. The innkeeper’s wife’s heart was softened by the green eyes of the boy and she offered to bring them dinner in their room so that they wouldn’t have to eat downstairs with the noisy men. Ned thanked her and led Harry upstairs to tend to his wounds the best he could.

He had wrapped Ser Rodrik’s cloak tightly around the boy, but still the garment was so large it made him look years younger. He was quiet as Ned removed it, staring at him now with curiosity rather than fear.

“You are a Stark,” he said softly after a while. “You are Benjen’s brother.”

“I am,” Ned said with a smile, pushing back Harry’s hair from his forehead to look at the scar. It was shaped oddly, like a bolt of lightning, as if thunder itself had struck him. “Does it hurt?”

“Not so much now,” the boy answered with a shrug. “Is it true you can turn into a wolf? Benjen said you could.”

 Ned laughed. That sounded like something his brother would tell children. “No, I assure you I am but a man.”

 “Oh,” the boy said, sounding almost disappointed. “We are going to Winterfell?”

 “Yes, we are,” Ned said, raising the boy’s arms to remove his shirt so he could examine his wound.

 “Are you going to send me away?” Harry asked again.

Ned paused. “No,” he said simply. He knew he should reassure the boy, tell him that he would never send him away and that, but he was looking at the boy’s shoulder in confusion.

“Your maester said your shoulder was injured in the fire,” he said.

 “It was.”

 “And that was two… three days ago?”

“Four.”

Ned looked at the wound, touched it lightly. “Does it hurt?”

“No. Can I put my shirt back on now? It’s cold,” the boy complained.

Ned nodded and sat on the edge of the bed, thinking, while the little boy lay down on one of the beds to rest until the innkeeper’s wife would bring their food.

Godric’s Hollow had burned four days ago. Half the castle was destroyed, its walls crumbling and scorched, and yet this child had escaped with nothing but a scar and a burn. The skin on his shoulder was rough and pink, but dry and completely healed.

On the bed was the bag the maester had given him. Ned opened it to look inside. The first thing he saw was a large piece of black cloth. He pulled on it slightly to examine it. It was one of the banners of House Potter. The majestic white phoenix had turned grey with soot, the corners frayed by fire.

And Ned remembered the words of the old song of House Potter.

 

  _And out of the ashes of death_

_The phoenix again will rise_

_For neither old nor young,_

_The phoenix does not die._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The few verses of the Potter song included here are based on the poem "The Phoenix again" by May Sarton, although I made a few changes.


	3. Lord of Nothing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen to the playlist while you read? Find it right here: http://8tracks.com/rosalindsparrow/heart-of-winter

**HARRY WOKE UP WITH A START** , sitting up straight in his chair and knocking the heavy book off the table in the process. It fell to the ground with a thump, raising a thick cloud of dust, and the sound made him jump again, his heart hammering inside his ribcage. He groaned as pain erupted suddenly in his neck and shoulders, sore from having been cramped over the table for hours. He rubbed his face, letting out a trembling breath as he wiped cold sweat from his forehead.

He had been dreaming of the faceless man again, the one clothed in darkness who came in silence and watched him sleep. He had been standing behind Harry this time, hiding in the shadows of the tall shelves filled with scrolls and old tomes. He never said anything, never made a sound. He only stood and watched, as if waiting. Harry had grown up with this man. He was always there, somewhere in his dreams, in a corner of his mind, apart from the action, observing. But lately, he seemed to be coming closer, the shadows under its hooded cloak becoming darker and more ominous, so much so that Harry had the feeling that if he were to peer under it, he could make out a shape. This time, he had been so close that Harry was almost certain that the figure had been about to reach out to him, but he had woken just in time, thank the gods.

Harry looked at his surroundings. The place usually occupied by Maester Luwin was vacant but for a pile of books and parchments. The old man had surely gone to bed hours ago. He wasn’t nearly young enough to stay up all night reading anymore. The candle nearest Harry had burned out during the night, collapsed in a deformed pile of dripping wax, and the tower room was deserted and flooded with light. It was morning already. Harry hadn’t meant to fall asleep. Judging from the light outside, it was much later than he would have wanted. He doubted he would have time to return to his chambers before anyone noticed that he hadn’t slept in his bed.

He shivered, trying to erase the dream from his mind, and bent down to retrieve the book from the floor before setting it back on the heavy wooden table. On the page before him was a crudely-drawn illustration of a being supposedly gone for thousands of years, with eyes of ice and a menacing mouth full of dagger-like teeth. He had been reading about the Long Night before he fell asleep, about the great winter that had lasted for years, thousands of years ago.

 _And from this darkness emerged the White Walkers, wielding swords of ice and raising the dead to fight the living_ , the page read. Harry snorted. No wonder he’d had nightmares. That ought to teach him not to read such horrible tales at night.

He closed the book, stood up from the hard, uncomfortable chair, blew out the remaining candles, and headed for the stairs.

He blinked hard against the bright sunlight as he emerged into the courtyard, stifling a yawn. Winterfell had woken up already, the morning air filled with the shouts, hammering, and clattering of people starting their day’s work. Harry stretched his shoulders, looking around at the familiar sights and faces that greeted him every day. Across the courtyard from where he was standing, Mikken was already working outside the smithy, but when the smith looked up and saw him, he scurried back inside before Harry could even nod in his direction.

Harry frowned. The smith had been acting queer lately. He would even be inclined to say that Mikken was avoiding him, but he thought he knew what this might be about, although he wouldn’t dare believe it with certainty, just in case he was in the wrong. He had glimpsed Lord Eddard whispering conspiratorially with the smith a few times this past week, and Harry was convinced that the two of them were hiding something from him, because he had once happened to walk by and they had stopped talking as soon as they caught sight of him.

Last year, when Robb came of age, he was offered his first real sword, as was tradition for the heir of a noble House. And now, Harry’s own sixteenth nameday was in less than a month’s time. He wondered if perhaps Lord Eddard had commissioned a sword for him as well. He hoped that was the case, but he didn’t dare get his hopes us. It wouldn’t do well to end up disappointed.

If he hadn’t been in such a hurry this morning, he would have stopped by the smithy and asked Mikken a ton of questions, just to make him uncomfortable. Harry wasn’t the sort of person to jest or mock others, but he hated the feeling that people were conspiring behind his back, even if their intentions were good. Unfortunately, he had to get back to his bedchambers, change his clothing, and freshen up before anyone saw him. Just as he was making his way to the Great Keep, however, he spotted Lady Catelyn coming out through the front doors. He wheeled around on his heels, and feeling quite foolish, bolted in the opposite direction before she could see him. He would have to find another way inside, or wait until she had gone to try sneaking in.

He decided he would go through the armoury and use the bridge leading to the Great Keep, but stopped in his tracks once again when the sound of clashing swords reached his ears, followed by a fit of laughter that he recognised as Robb’s, and an inaudible retort from Ser Rodrik. Harry cursed himself for losing track of time so badly. If the others were already practicing in the yard, he was in deep trouble. He snuck along the walls of the guest house, hoping to remain unnoticed, ran past the library tower again, and bolted for the stables instead. As soon as he set foot inside, he walked straight into someone and stumbled back roughly.

“Hodor!” said Hodor as Harry collided with his broad chest. The stableboy caught him around the shoulders before he could fall backwards, steadying him firmly. Then he grinned at Harry and patted his head before grabbing a bundle of hay and resuming his work. Harry was almost a man grown – taller than his own father had been, according to Lord Eddard – but still Hodor’s hand nearly covered his whole head.

A bucket of fresh drinking water had just been brought in for the horses, and Harry crouched next to it, cupped his hands into the ice cold liquid and washed his face and neck. His reflection stared back at him on the trembling surface of the water, pale green eyes rimmed with red, and skin almost white in contrast with the dark, disarrayed curls that fell around his face. He looked tired and troubled, but at least the cold water managed to chase away the sleepiness, and when he stood again, he felt more alert.

“You missed breakfast,” a voice said from behind him and Harry turned, wiping the droplets from his face. Jon had entered the stables and was looking at him with narrowed eyes. “I thought I saw you running by in the yard just now. Did you spend all night in the library again? Lady Catelyn will have your hide if she finds out.”

Harry shrugged lazily. Lady Catelyn was no idiot. She probably knew already. He was only avoiding her to save himself the trouble of having to hear disappointment in her voice.

“Gods, how long has it been since you’ve had a good night’s sleep? You look terrible,” Jon continued.

Harry ignored him and sat down heavily on a bundle of hay that lay forgotten near the stalls. Jon approached, his dark eyes looking at him piercingly, like they always did, as if he was trying to look deep into Harry’s very soul. “You’ve been having nightmares again,” he said softly as he sat down beside Harry. It wasn’t a question. “About that man…”

“I don’t want to speak about this here,” Harry said in a very low voice. He couldn’t explain why, but he felt like talking about this man… or whatever he was, in broad daylight, might shatter the fine barrier between dream and reality, especially since this barrier seemed to be getting thinner somehow. He had read that the people of old Valyria considered dreams as prophetic. If they were right, Harry didn’t dare think about what it could mean for him. “And stop treating me like a child,” he added when he saw that Jon looked even more concerned and was about to speak again. “I can take care of myself.”

Jon sighed. He had heard this all before. “I suppose if you want to ignore your problems, it concerns only you,” he said, irritated. “But you know that if you ever want to…”

“What do we have here?” someone remarked from behind them before Jon could finish talking. Harry forced himself not to groan as he heard the voice. He saw Jon’s eyes narrow before turning to face Theon Greyjoy, who looked just as tired and disgruntled as Harry did. “What are you two whispering about on this fine morning?”

“Nothing that concerns you,” Jon said, but Theon promptly ignored him. He was staring directly at Harry instead, as always.

“It seems we have both spent the night out of bed, Potter,” the older boy said with a wink.

“Not for the same reasons,” Harry replied, hiding his disdain with difficulty.

Theon looked amused. “Stop being so noble, Potter. You should accompany me next time. Perhaps shoving your cock in one of the whores from Winter Town might just get rid of the stick up your arse.”

Jon stood slowly, ready to make Theon take back the next words that might come out of his mouth, but Harry rose to his feet too and stepped in between them. He didn’t know who upset him the most at that moment, Theon with his never-ending taunts, or Jon, with his overprotectiveness.

“I’d rather not let my _cock_ near any woman yours might have touched, lest I catch some disease,” Harry said coldly. “Although I might have to travel all the way to King’s Landing before I find one who was spared the likes of you.”

“I will take this as a compliment,” Theon said with a smirk.

“I am certain you will.”

They stared at each other in silence for some time, the tension thickening in the air. Slowly, Theon’s smirk turned sour under Harry’s gaze. “You think you are so much better than me, don’t you, Potter?”

“That goes without saying,” Harry replied.

“And what in the world would have given you that idea? Was it your ruins of a castle or your prestigious title? What was it, Lord of Nothing?”

Harry kept his face blank of emotion, but as always, he felt a dull wave of anger upon hearing the name. It was one of the various sobriquets that Theon had made up for him. _Lord of Nothing_ was the latest one, and _King of Ruins_ was also common, but then there was his favourite, _Lord of Ashes_ , which he used as often as possible, but only when Lord Eddard was nowhere near, of course.

“Leave him alone, Greyjoy,” Jon said angrily, but Harry was already stepping closer to the other boy, not at all threatened by the fact that Theon was taller, broader, and older than he was.

“And what, pray tell, makes you any better, Greyjoy?” he said angrily. “What are the words of your House again? _We Do Not Sow_? Right, you do not sow, you only steal what better men have built. I don’t see how that is anything to be proud of.”

Theon opened his mouth to reply, but he seemed mute with rage.

“You like to believe I am worthless because, unlike you, I don’t have a castle or a powerful father to rule it,” Harry went on, furious, “but I would rather be what I am than be like you. I would rather reign over a pile of ashes than be the son of a traitorous rebel…”

Theon let out a growl of rage and launched at him suddenly. Unprepared for such an outcome, Harry lost his balance and landed heavily on the cold, hard ground of the stables. The breath was knocked out of him and the back of his head collided with the packed dirt, sending sparks of pain through his spine. Nearby, a colt whinnied frightfully in its stall, hitting the wooden walls repeatedly with its hooves, as if protesting the sudden violence it witnessed. Harry groaned in pain as a fist smashed against his jaw. He had been so surprised by Theon’s reaction that it took him a few seconds to rest, but after this first hit, a fire ignited inside his ribcage and he responded with his own fists. It was his one chance to get back at Theon for years of tyranny.

Jon yelled something that Harry did not understand, and he tried to grab at Theon to pull him off but an elbow grazed the side of his face and he stepped back, startled. The tension had been building between the both of them for years, and maybe Jon had just then realised that nothing in his power could be done to stop this. It had been inevitable.

“Hodor!” Hodor called urgently, attracting the attention of the other stableboys. They looked startled as they witnessed the two boys’ fury, and yet none of them made a move to interrupt the fight. They gathered closer around them and called out encouragements instead, to one boy or the other, laughing and jesting loudly. It wasn’t every day that they could watch highborns rolling around in the dirt, clawing at each other like peasants, and they seemed to enjoy the sight.

Harry was shorter and younger than Theon, but he was swift, agile, and furious. This rage had been growing inside him for years. On better days, he managed to walk away from confrontations and seek the silence and stillness of the godswood to appease his anger, and that’s probably what he would have done today if Theon hadn’t initiated the fight. But now, the rage consumed him, burning through him like a roaring fire.

Theon had slipped his hands around his neck and was tightening his grip rapidly, and Harry had landed a few reasonably hard blows to Theon’s jaw when a loud bellow came suddenly from behind them. “WHAT IS THIS MADNESS?”

A strong pair of arms dragged Theon away from him, the older boy struggling against the grip. Harry breathed in deeply, rubbing at his throat, and rose to his feet slowly, his head throbbing.

Ser Rodrik stood between them, tall, broad, and quite irritated at the sight of them, his silhouette a looming shadow against the daylight coming in from the courtyard. Theon stood quietly to the side, rubbing his jaw. There was still anger in his eyes. Then, just as unexpectedly as the first time, he launched himself towards Harry, but just before he could reach him, Ser Rodrik pushed him away firmly.

“Stand back, Theon. That’s enough now,” the knight warned him gruffly. “What has gotten into you two now? This is the third time this week I have been told of you quarreling. Is it not enough for you to yell obscenities at each other anymore? Now you have to speak with your fists?”

“He insulted my father!” Theon yelled, outraged.

“Oh, don’t be such a child,” Harry scoffed, shaking his head to try and rid himself of the dizziness. “You insult my family constantly and I’ve never tried to strangle you.”

“Be quiet, both of you!” Ser Rodrik snapped. He watched them warily, stroking his whiskers. It was obvious that he would much rather be anywhere else in the Seven Kingdoms than in the stables of Winterfell, acting as a peacemaker for pointless wars. “You are both far too impulsive,” he said more calmly. “Try to hold your temper… and guarding your tongues would certainly do you no harm. You youngsters… the atrocities that come out of your mouths sometimes… It would make your mothers shiver in their graves. Insults are nothing more than a perfectly stupid waste of wits. And by the gods, have you two not learned anything I have taught you? You are highborns from noble Houses. I will not have you quarreling on the ground like savages. You can be sure Lord Stark will hear of this.”

Harry’s anger dissipated almost at once and he felt his heart sink slightly at these words. The thought of disappointing Lord Eddard left a bitter taste in his mouth. He looked up to the man more than to anyone else in Winterfell. Lord Eddard had taken him in after his family’s death when he could very well have sent him away to become someone else’s burden, and Harry was treated as well as the Starks’ own children. They were all like siblings to him – Robb and Jon, Sansa and Arya, Bran and Rickon – but it was different with Theon, it had always been different.

Balon Greyjoy’s son had been taken as ward by Lord Eddard barely a year after Harry came to Winterfell. Upon hearing the news, Harry had felt something akin to relief. He would no longer be the only stranger here, he thought. Both their families had fallen, although not in the same way, and he found it comforting to think that there would now be someone else here who understood what it felt like to lose so much. Now he realised he had been naïve to think like this. From the early days, Theon, who was four years older than him, had taken to belittling and bullying him constantly.

Years had passed, Harry had grown up and learned to defend himself, and now he knew the reason for Theon’s resentment. It was the very same reason for which he had thought they would get along in the first place. Neither of them were Starks by blood, and yet Harry was considered a son. Theon, although he was always treated with respect and kindness by everyone – even though Harry often doubted he deserved them – could never forget the fact that he was, first of all, a hostage to the Starks, a permanent visitor. He was hostile out of jealousy, Harry thought. And because Harry thought that jealousy was a very pitiful sentiment, it didn’t help his feelings towards Theon in the least. Their animosity had turned into hatred over the years.

Robb said that the main reason why Harry and Theon would never get along was simply because Theon found everything amusing, and Harry had absolutely no sense of humour.

Harry looked up. Theon didn’t seem too happy at the prospect of having to explain himself to their surrogate father either. He was looking down in guilt.

“At least you have the decency to look ashamed of yourselves,” Ser Rodrik said, sighing. “Come now, lads. Follow me.”

Jon was standing at the entrance to the stables. Harry frowned. He hadn’t noticed him leaving, but of course it was Jon who ran to get Ser Rodrik when he failed to separate them. He was always like that. He never let Harry defend himself.

“Always there to protect your damsel, aren’t you, Snow?” Theon sneered at him as they passed.

“I thought I told you to hold your tongue,” Ser Rodrik snapped at him.

Robb was standing in the yard, leaning on his tourney sword, waiting. They had interrupted his training, and he looked peeved at them for it. Robb had always been a good swordsman, but he was often playful and had to be brought back to order. Lately, however, he took to training with a kind of serious concentration that was usually seen on Jon’s face. Harry thought it might have to do with having received his very own sword. Robb was starting to realise that childhood had passed and that the time was upon him to start being the heir to Winterfell.

“It’s over for today, Robb,” Ser Rodrik announced. “These two couldn’t wait their turns, so you can thank them for that. Come here, you both. Robb, give Harry your sword. Theon, you take this one.” Robb handed Harry the tourney sword he had been using, and Harry took it obediently. Theon didn’t move from his spot in the middle of the yard. Ser Rodrik groaned in warning and threw him the sword he had left discarded on the ground earlier. Theon caught it lazily.

Harry glanced around the yard. Many had stopped working and were looking in their direction, wondering what the commotion was about. Ser Rodrik’s voice had echoed around, his consternation evident to all. Robb stepped back to stand on the sidelines, looking confused, and Jon moved to stand beside him, worried. On the bridge leading from the armoury to the Great Keep, Harry caught a glimpse of Arya’s pale face staring down at them. Nothing went unnoticed in Winterfell. Lord Eddard had probably already heard about their behaviour. He would be furious. He always told them not to fight among themselves.

“What are you waiting for?” Ser Rodrik said loudly. “You want to fight? Then, fight! Settle your differences the noble way. And I’m not letting you go until you’re both too exhausted to swing these swords.”

It would not take long, Harry thought as he parried Theon’s first hit. They were both tired from another sleepless night, and sore from their impromptu fist fight. The back of Harry’s head throbbed painfully where his skull had collided with the ground and he was almost certain that if he were to reach up and touch the painful spot, his fingers would be bloodied. The tourney sword felt heavier in his hands than it normally was.

Theon was a good swordsman, but Harry was faster on his feet and had quicker reflexes. His exhaustion, however, gave him the impression that he was moving slowly and heavily. His arms trembled under the weight of the sword and he felt the tremor of Theon’s hits deep into his bones and to the back of his skull, in the very heart of the aching pain he felt there. They both held their ground still, struggling to keep going, to keep hitting and parrying until the other could stand no more. They kept at it until Theon gave a great roar and swung his sword particularly hard. Harry barely managed to parry it, but he did, and he used all the strength he could gather to jam his sword against Theon’s.

And so they stood, a few inches from each other, each blocking the other’s blade, swords crossed in between them. Each held his ground, breathing hard and pressed their sword with their whole weight. Around them, all those who had been cheering them on were growing quiet, watching and waiting. Harry could see Jon and Robb on his right, out of the corner of his eye. Jon looked ready to bolt towards them, of course. Robb, however, looked uncertain. He loved Theon as much as he did Harry. He had always been great friends with Balon Greyjoy’s son, and the animosity between Harry and him never failed to leave him perplexed, as if he didn’t quite know if he should pick a side, and if so, which one to pick.

“Yield!” Theon hissed furiously, staring him in the eye. Both their arms were trembling with the effort, struggling to hold the position.

“You yield!” Harry replied.

“With real steel, I’d have opened you up by now,” Theon groaned.

“Keep telling yourself that,” Harry drawled. “How convenient for you that we’ll never know…”

“That’s enough now,” Ser Rodrik said with a sigh. “No one wants to stand here all day. You can lower your swords.”

They obeyed rather reluctantly. The knight walked up to them, shaking his head, but there was a hint of a smile on his lips. They were a sore sight, the both of them, bruised, sweaty, and barely standing. He disapproved of their behaviour in the stables, but in some way, Harry still felt that he was proud of them. When he turned away from Theon, the first thing he saw was Maester Luwin walking towards them. Lord Eddard was with them, and by the look on his face, he had already been told everything.

 He was looking at Theon and Harry disapprovingly, taking in their sorry state, dirty clothes, and bruised faces. He didn’t say anything for a long time, but when he spoke, it was to Harry. “You’re bleeding,” he said. “Go change your clothes, and have Maester Luwin take a look at your injuries, then join me in the godswood.”

Harry could feel warm blood dripping down the back of his neck. He nodded quietly and headed towards the Great Keep, Maester Luwin walking beside him.

“Theon, I want to have a word with you,” he heard Lord Eddard say behind his back.

“Father…” said Jon’s voice urgently, but then Harry could hear no more as he walked away and their voices were buried in the various sounds of Winterfell’s courtyard.

He didn’t look forward to that talk in the godswood, but this poor excuse for a swordfight was not the end of it. Of that he was certain.

 

Eleven years had passed since the day Harry had arrived in Winterfell, but of his life before that day, he did not remember much. The halls of Godric’s Hollow had all but vanished from his memory, along with his brothers’ laughter, his father’s voice and his mother’s face. Maester Luwin said that it was to be expected, that young people who experience devastating sorrow very early in life can sometimes make themselves forget without meaning to, but this memory loss angered Harry deeply. He did not want to forget what had happened. He wanted to carry the weight of it on his shoulders. But this didn’t meant that Theon had a right to mock his burden.

All he had left from the mysterious fire that destroyed his home was a scar on his forehead, which he assumed had been caused by a falling piece of rubble, and an old burn on his shoulder. There were vague memories of flames and someone screaming, but Harry didn’t even know if these were real or if he had imagined them in an effort to remember the slightest detail about that night. He knew he should be grateful to be alive. He had Winterfell, and the Starks were like his family now, but sometimes he felt so completely alone in an inexplicable way. It was lie a hole inside his chest, an emptiness that he couldn’t fill no matter how hard he tried, no matter how many people he was surrounded with.

A damaged banner of House Potter had been found in the ruins of Godric’s Hollow. Harry had hung it on the wall of his bedchambers as a reminder that everything is temporary, that nothing in life should be taken for granted, that even the mighty can fall. With it had been found a cloak, black and silky to the touch, with a hood and a clasp at the front shaped like a silver phoenix. It must have belonged to his father, although Harry had no memory of having seen James Potter wear anything like it. But since he had hardly any memory of anything his father might have done or worn, he didn’t worry about it too much. Harry never wore it either. Not only was it not nearly warm enough for most days in Winterfell, but he didn’t feel worthy of it somehow.

He stared at the banner on the wall while Maester Luwin dabbed at the back of his head with a smelly liquid and a soft cloth. The grey phoenix spread elegant winds, as if ready to burst into flames, surging with power. How many hours had Harry spend staring at it, in anger or sadness? Even after all this time, he couldn’t believe that this piece of cloth was all that remained of the Potters’ legacy.

“Do you think phoenixes really existed?” he asked Maester Luwin, grimacing in pain as the old man dabbed more liquid onto his wound.

“I like to believe they once did, but believing in something does not make it real,” Maester Luwin said, humming distractedly as he worked.

“Just as denying the existence of something does not make it unreal,” Harry replied.

“In the old books, they are called Fire Birds. They were majestic animals with magical properties. They were immortal, had the ability to heal the most lethal of wounds, and could lift great weights with their colourful tail feathers. But they live only in legends, Harry, like the Children of the Forest, the White Walkers, and the sorcerers,” the old man said.

“Some say legends are born for a reason.”

Maester Luwin chuckled. “I should know better than to argue with you when you have your mind set about something,” he said. “There, we are done here,” he said, patting Harry on the shoulder, “but this is a nasty wound and you will need to rest. No more fighting for you,” he added as he started gathering his healing supplies.

Harry stood from the bench next to the window and headed towards his bed, looking forward to a long nap, but Maester Luwin shook his head. “You should head to the godswood now, remember? Lord Eddard will want to see you.”

Harry sighed. He had forgotten about that. “How do you think I will be punished?” he asked.

Maester Luwin put a hand on his shoulder and smiled gently. “Your punishment will not be worse than you deserve. I have no doubt that he will be fair with you.”

“We will see,” Harry said quietly, leaving the room.

He walked slowly, still slightly dizzy, but in less pain than before. He was not eager to have to face Lord Eddard, but he reminded himself that he hadn’t been the one to start the fight. He was only guilty of defending himself. As he was crossing the bridge leading to the armoury, he met Arya and Sansa, who looked like they had been arguing again. They fell quiet when they saw him approach. Arya looked at him and smiled, eyes bright with excitement, and he remembered the sight of her on this same bridge earlier, before the fight. She opened her mouth, but it was Sansa who spoke first.

“Is it true what they say in the yard?” she asked softly, as always. “Did you really fight Theon this morning?”

“Why wouldn’t it be true?” Arya said with a frown. “I just told you everything about it. I saw them in the yard!”

Sansa looked irritated but ignored her sister. “They say Ser Rodrik caught you in the stables, quarrelling on the ground…” she continued, sounding slightly reproachful but staring at his face, where already a few bruises had appeared.

“It’s the truth,” Harry said, never one to lie even if he had to embarrass himself.

“How was it?” Arya asked, aghast. “Did you hit Theon many times?”

“What happened?” Sansa asked with a frown. “Did he insult your family again? You shouldn’t let him upset you, Harry. He is only jealous because you are younger than him and already a Lord.”

Lord of what? He thought. He had no House. If Jon had been there, Harry knew what he would say. _You may not have a House, but you have a name, Harry. You have titles. It’s the only thing that matters in this world._ And he understood why Jon often felt the need to remind him of this. Jon was strong, clever, and a very good swordsman, but all this would never mean anything. It would lead to nothing because he was a bastard. No matter how much effort he put into his actions, it would never really matter in the end.

“Your father is waiting for me in the godswood,” Harry told the girls quietly. “I should not make him wait.”

“You have to tell him, Harry. I’ve seen the way Theon treats you when Father isn’t around. I would have done the same!”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“Robb said that once in a while, Theon needs to be reminded that he is not king of the Seven Kingdoms,” Sansa told him, but she blushed and turned her head away when he looked at her. As much as she looked down on him for fighting in such a lowly way, he was touched that she felt she had to comfort him.

“You two need not worry about me. I’ll be fine,” he told them softly. “I have to see your father now. We’ll talk again later.”

 

Harry found Lord Eddard sitting under the Heart Tree, next to the pool of blackened water, waiting for him. There had always been a melancholy air about the Lord of Winterfell, which Harry found peaceful and comforting. He did not remember much about his childhood before the day he had met Lord Eddard, and the man had barely changed since then. The only trace of the passage of time was the greying hair at his temples and the small wrinkles at the corner of his eyes.

“Will this be my punishment?” Harry said, breaking the silence of the godswood with reticence. “Will I have to spend the night out here?”

“Harry,” Lord Eddard said, raising his head to look at him. His voice was gentle, which helped ease Harry’s feeling of dread, but not his guilt. “Were you hurt?”

Harry shook his head slightly. He still felt dizzy, but the world seemed to get clearer and clearer and the pain was fading away. “Maester Luwin said I only need rest.”

“I am sorry,” Lord Eddard said after a moment, and Harry frowned in confusion. “I did not know how serious the situation was between you and Theon…”

“It was my fault,” Harry said. “I said some truly horrible things to him. He was right to hit me.”

“That is almost exactly what Theon himself told me. He insists you are to blame.” Lord Eddard looked amused. “He is older than you, and yet most of the time, you seem much older than him.”

“He thinks life is a jape,” Harry said through gritted teeth. “After what happened to his family, he should know better.”

“From what Jon told me, your words were nothing compared to what Theon has been throwing at you for years behind my back,” Lord Eddard continued. “Jon was very insistent that you shouldn’t be punished, that Theon has been provoking you long before.” He sighed heavily. “You should have come to me, Harry. Had I known about it, I would have put a stop to it long ago. But I should have known… You never talk. You never let me know what is going on inside your head,” he said, sighing again. “Nonetheless, I have spoken to Theon and told him to leave you be.”

“You didn’t have to. I can defend myself,” Harry said, frowning.

 “I know that.” He looked at Harry quietly for a moment. “You so remind me of your father. Sometimes I have to remind myself that I am seeing you and not him…” He trailed off into silence, as if remembering a moment in the distant past.

 “Can I ask you a question, Lord Eddard?” Harry asked, hesitant.

“There is no need to ask permission, Harry. You know that.”

Harry paused before speaking, unsure how to word his thoughts. “Why didn’t you send me away after my parents died? You could have sent me to Thornfort to live with my aunt. And Maester Luwin told me that Sirius Black sent you a raven when he heard that I had survived, that he wanted to take me in Grimmauld Hall. Why didn’t you send me away? You didn’t have to keep me.”

Lord Eddard shook his head. “No, I did. I felt it was my duty to raise you. Your father grew up in Winterfell. He was as much my father’s son as I was. There is Stark blood in your veins, Harry, just as there is Potter blood in mine. Sometimes, by the gods, you act more like a Stark than anyone else here,” he said with a smile.

“I am very grateful,” Harry said quietly. “I would not want you to think that I am being selfish or… Everyone has always been so kind to me, but… at times I feel… very alone.”

“You have a fire in you, Harry,” Lord Eddard said, his voice slightly hoarse. “It burns brightly despite everything you have been through, and I admire you for it. Your parents may be gone, Harry, but you are not alone. I want you to remember that.”

Harry wanted to thank him again, but his heart felt heavy and his throat tight so he said nothing and let the silence of the godswood take over once more.


	4. Ashes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Want to listen to the playlist while you read? Find it right here: http://8tracks.com/rosalindsparrow/heart-of-winter  
> Follow me on Tumblr, if you will: dracarysmotherfucker.tumblr.com

 

 

**HE LOVED TO PRACTICE EARLY** in the morning, when a cold mist filled the air and dawn cast its dim light on the surroundings. He loved to practice when Winterfell was still and silent. Not that the usual noise and presence of the others disturbed him, but it was just another one of those things he preferred to do alone.

Harry stood in the cold air, hands bare and motionless, his breath coming out in little clouds of mist. Staring at the straw target across the yard, he made the rest of the world disappear from his mind. For now, nothing else existed. There was only him and the target. The bow was part of his arm, of his soul. He took a deep breath, raised the bow, and in a series of fast and precise repetitive movements, Harry grabbed arrows from the quiver strapped to his back and shot them at the target, one after the other, swiftly and silently, until his hand came up empty. Then, slowly, he let out the breath he had been holding and lowered the bow. A thick mass of arrows was sticking out of the very centre of the target.

Something like a smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "Good morning," he said out loud to the silhouette crouching on a low cornice to his left. "What are you doing out so early?"

"I sneaked out," Bran said, climbing down from the armoury roof.

"And why is that?" Harry asked, walking up to the target.

"I like watching you. It looks so easy for you," the ten-year-old said in admiration and envy.

"It doesn't mean it is," Harry said softly as he removed the arrows. Two of them had been split and he tossed them aside. "It's very difficult, in truth."

"I don't believe you," Bran replied gloomily, crossing his arms across his chest. "You only say that to make me feel better. Everyone is so good at this... you, Jon, Robb, especially Theon. I could never even compare." Harry opened his mouth to speak, but Bran cut him off, frowning deeply. "And don't say I need only to practice, because that's what I have been doing and it's just not working."

"Bran," Harry said, shaking his head as he walked up to the little boy he loved like a brother. "You're only ten. Give it time. I'm certain by the time you come of age, you'll be the best archer Winterfell has ever seen. You're so stubborn, you can do anything if you set your mind to it."

Around them, people were now getting ready to start the day, and Harry thought he could hear the fires roaring to life in the blacksmith's. His moment of tranquillity had passed. "Come," he told Bran. "Why don't I show you a few tricks?"

Bran shrugged, but Harry knew him well enough to know that this was exactly what he had been hoping for. "You would only be wasting your time. I can't even hit the target," he said, but he stepped forward nonetheless and smiled weakly when Harry handed him his bow. "Robb and Jon are always mocking me because of it," he mumbled.

Harry knew that. He had noticed. "Well, do you see Robb and Jon anywhere? There's just you and me, and I promise I won't be mocking you. Now, stand straight and put your weight on your front leg," he said, nudging Bran into position. "Good. Raise the bow. Relax your bow hand. If it's too tense, you'll miss."

He stared at Bran while he spoke. The boy had a good stance, which had already been rooted into his head by Ser Rodrik, but he was nervous, and it showed. Harry handed him an arrow and watched as he set it into position carefully. "Your chest moves when you breathe," he said. "It'll make the bow shift and you'll miss your shot, so while you're pulling back the arrow, take a deep breath and hold it in."

Bran obeyed, sucked in a shaky breath and waited. "You don't have to aim for very long," Harry urged him. "Trust your eyes. They know where they want the arrow to go."

Harry watched as he released the arrow. Bran shut his eyes tightly in the process, as if to avoid the shame of seeing it fly over the castle walls again. But it didn't. It struck the very edge of the straw target and almost flew past it, but it held on, dangling a little bit on the side.

"You can breathe out now, Bran," Harry said, clapping him on the back.

Bran let out a trembling huff of breath as he opened his eyes and stared at the target, a small smile forming on his lips. "It's the first time I've ever even grazed it," he said in quiet admiration.

"See? Things are never so bad as you make them out to be," Harry said kindly.

"Be careful with him, Harry," said Robb's voice gruffly as he came up behind them. "You don't want to lose an eye."

Harry frowned and was going to tell him off for discouraging Bran, but Robb barely looked at them and walked on straight inside the armoury. "What's gotten into him?" Harry wondered out loud.

"He had a fight with Theon," Bran said suddenly with a note of eagerness to his voice, as though he couldn't believe he had almost forgotten to tell Harry about it.

"What about?" Harry asked, surprised. He didn't think Robb and Theon had ever gotten into a fight before. They usually got along like peas in a pod.

"About you, of course."

"About me? What for?"

Bran looked in a much better mood now, eager to share what he had heard. "I wasn't there, but Arya told me everything about it. She heard them through the door. Robb told Theon he shouldn't be so mean to you all the time, that you two were raised as equals, like brothers, and that you should act like so, and that if you couldn't manage this, it certainly wasn't _your_ fault. Then Theon said that you weren't his brother and never would be, and nothing Father said would make it otherwise. And Robb got really mad and said that after all Father has done for Theon, he should do what he says and be nice to you... And then... Oh, wait, there was something else before that, but I can't remember..."

"I don't care to know any more, Bran," Harry said, shaking his head. "It does not interest me what Theon and Robb talk about when no one is meant to hear them, and it shouldn't matter to you either. Don't worry about me. I don't suffer from Theon's lack of brotherly love. And tell Arya she shouldn't listen at the doors, would you?"

"She won't listen to me!" Bran said, laughing, handing Harry back his bow.

"True. Besides, you're not one to talk. Arya likes to eavesdrop, and you like to climb the castle walls. I don't know which of you is worse. Quite the little savages you both are," Harry said, unstrapping the quiver from his back and putting away the last of the arrows.

"You're losing your touch, Harry," Jon said as he joined them in the yard, laughing as he saw the lonely arrow dangling from the target. Rickon was trotting behind him. Jon grabbed him and propped him on top of a saddle that was lying across the fence next to them.

"That's _my_ arrow!" Bran said proudly.

"Oh, good job, Bran!" Jon said, clapping him on the back. "You're getting there..."

"Yes, I suppose that's a start," said Robb, who had just come back out of the armoury. "Come on, Bran. Show us how it's done."

Bran's smile froze. "I... I don't know if..." he stuttered, looking to Harry for help.

"Why don't you two leave him alone? He's just as skilled as any boy his own age. You're making him nervous, that's why he can never hit the target," Harry told them with a frown. He loved Jon and Robb deeply, but they could be such arses sometimes.

"On the battlefield, there is no time to be nervous," Robb said somewhat haughtily.

"He's ten years old!" Harry replied, annoyed. "If gods be good, he'll never even see a battlefield. And don't pretend you've ever set foot on one either."

Jon laughed at the equally annoyed look on Robb's face. "Oh, come off, Harry. We're only trying to help him get better," he said earnestly before turning to Bran. "We don't mean to make you nervous, but Robb is right. In a fight, when your life depends on it, you can't worry about who is watching you."

Hesitantly, Bran went to fetch his own bow, which was more fit to his size than Harry's, pulled a quiver of arrows on his shoulder and a glove on his right hand, then got into position. For a moment, Harry almost believed that perhaps a miracle would occur and Bran would hit the target again, but not for very long. However well he had performed earlier, Bran kept missing the target, again and again. He pounded the ground in frustration after each shot. Robb and Jon kept silent at first, patient under Harry's watchful glare, but it quickly became obvious that they were trying their hardest not to laugh. It wasn't clear, however, whether they were restraining themselves as not to hurt their brother's feelings or as not to suffer Harry's wrath.

By then, the yard was filled with its usual noises and chatter, and Bran was gaining more spectators. Trying to encourage him, Jon patted his shoulders firmly and said, "Go on. Father's watching. And your mother."

Bran turned to look up at his parents, both standing on the bridge leading to the Great Keep, and he smiled uncomfortably. The sight didn't seem to give him any more courage, and he missed yet again. Harry winced as the others chuckled and groaned at each missed shot. There was only so much humiliation the boy could take. Birds were flying away in fright as Bran missed yet again, and this time, Jon let out a burst of laughter, followed by Robb and Rickon.

"And which one of you was a marksman at ten?" Lord Eddard said reproachfully, just when Harry was about to call Robb and Jon something very rude. They all fell silent and looked up at the man with shame. "Keep practising, Bran. Go on," he said with a kind smile and a nod.

"Don't think too much, Bran," Jon said more softly, aware of his father's reprimanding eyes on them.

"Relax your bow arm," Robb said, his arms crossed over his chest.

In his nervousness, Bran seemed to have forgotten everything Harry had told him earlier. He settled in position awkwardly, but this time, before he could let go of the arrow, another one flew in from behind him, right past his shoulder, and hit the very centre of the target. Startled, Bran turned around swiftly, and sure enough, there stood Arya, who had apparently escaped her needlework once again to join them in the yard. Bow in hand, she smiled and did a little curtsy before running away, Bran on her heels, furious. Robb and Jon erupted in laughter, urging him on.

"You shouldn't laugh at him," Harry told them reproachfully. "He was doing very well this morning before you two started sneering."

They had the decency to look ashamed, and Robb avoided Harry's eyes as he went to fetch the arrows, asking Rickon for help.

"We mean no harm," Jon told Harry. "You know I would never do anything to hurt Bran. Neither would Robb. He's just in a foul mood today, that's all."

Harry stole a quick look at Robb before turning back to Jon. "What's this I heard about Robb and Theon fighting about me?"

Jon shook his head. "Robb is not angry with you, if that's what you're thinking. This whole thing with you and Theon yesterday opened his eyes, I think. Robb likes to think that everything is always perfectly well in the world. He doesn't like conflict. None of this is your fault."

Rickon ran back to them with a handful of arrows and Jon put them away. He was going to say something more to Harry, but he fell silent and raised his head suddenly. Harry followed his gaze. Lady Catelyn now stood on her own on the bridge over the armoury. She was looking at Jon that way again, the only way Harry had ever seen her look at him, like he was dirty and unwanted. After a long moment, she left without a word, and Jon simply turned his attention back to the arrows, as if this was an everyday occurrence, because it was. Harry felt a lump form in his throat. Lady Catelyn was such a gentle woman to everyone, himself included, and it never failed to make him uncomfortable to witness her behaviour towards Jon. For this reason, he had never managed to get as close to her as he was to Lord Eddard. He put a hand on Jon's arm, hoping to comfort him in some way, but Jon smiled at him.

"Don't worry about me," he said. "It doesn't bother me anymore."

Theon had appeared in the yard and was approaching them, head held high, with an air of importance about him. "Saddle your horses!" he called out. "They've captured a deserter from the Night's Watch."

Harry groaned. He had been looking forward to a quiet day and was planning to head up to the Maester's Turret and have a long talk with Maester Luwin, but unfortunately, this would have to wait. Jon's shoulders sagged. He didn't seem too eager to witness another beheading either. "Gods, why do they keep running off?" he mumbled under his breath.

"Where's Bran?" Theon said, looking around. "Lord Stark said he's coming too."

"Rickon, go get Bran, would you?" Robb told his youngest brother. "Try to catch him before Arya can do too much damage." He looked at Theon darkly for second before turning away without a word.

"What are you two waiting for?" Theon hissed at Jon and Harry when he caught them looking at him. "Go fetch your horses! We don't have all day!" he said moodily before heading towards the stables.

They stared after him as he left and Jon chuckled, shaking his head. As guilty as Harry felt for having caused a fight between Robb and Theon, he couldn't help thinking that this was an interesting change of character.

"I don't know about you," he told Jon as they headed towards the stables together, "but I feel as if I've woken up in another world this morning."

"A better one?" Jon asked with a smile.

"One where Theon is unpleasant to everyone, not just me, but I'm not sure if this is better."

The stableboys were already leading horses out of their stalls. Lord Eddard's was waiting outside, and Robb's was being brushed. Hullen, the master of horses, walked straight up to Harry, looking gruff and annoyed.

"We've had this talk already, Hullen," Harry told him before he could say a word. "I'm taking Cloud."

Hullen looked at him darkly. "I've got a dozen horses that would fit you better. You are a young Lord. You should be riding a fine destrier, not that old..."

"You are wasting your time, Hullen," Harry said as he walked into the stables and headed directly for Cloud's stall. The horse raised his head to look at him, dark eyes shining, and he huffed quietly. "Hey, old boy," Harry said, caressing his muzzle.

Cloud was an old palfrey who had seen better days, but his black coat was still shiny and he walked with dignity despite his years. For months, Hullen had been trying to convince Harry to pick a younger horse, but Harry liked Cloud. He found his presence calming, and there was something like an air of wisdom about him, like he had a truly profound knowledge of human nature.

"Hodor," Hodor said as he approached Harry, carrying Cloud's saddle.

"Yes, thank you, Hodor." Harry stepped aside and watched the giant prepare Cloud for the journey. Hodor chuckled and caressed the horse's flank as the worked. Cloud stood there patiently, but Harry could already see the eagerness in him. He was looking forward to a long walk.

  

More than a dozen men stood around the grassy hills, dressed in black, with the Stark banners floating in the cool wind. There were a few guards from a nearby holdfast, those who had intercepted the runaway, and the rest had come from Winterfell. Apart from Harry, Jon, Robb, Theon, and Bran, Lord Eddard had brought with him Ser Rodrik and Jory. Bran still looked nervous, but this time archery was the last thing on his mind.

The man was brought forward, clothed like the Brothers of the Night's Watch. He was muttering under his breath, but from where he stood behind the others, Harry couldn't hear a word he said. He was young, but not the youngest Harry had ever seen executed, although it was hard to say because of the dirt on his skin, and the Wall tended to make people age more quickly. Harry remembered every one of them. His first execution had been an older man, a knight who had been disgraced and condemned to spend his remaining days on the Wall. He had lasted there merely a fortnight before fleeing and was furious at them for catching him. He had called Lord Eddard all sorts of names. But this one's eyes were wide and fearful, his face wounded with bites from the cold. He looked terrified, and Harry wondered what had possessed him to run, but he must have been brave to try and escape when he knew the fate that awaited him if he was caught.

The deserter looked up at Lord Eddard when he reached the large rock in the middle of the crowd, and there it was, surely enough, the bravery despite the fear. It was in his eyes and his words as he spoke. "I know I broke my oath," he said louder, so that even Harry heard him, "and I know I'm a deserter."

He was staring directly at Lord Eddard, who looked like he might be sick. The rest of them watched the scene in silence. "I should have gone back to the Wall and warned them, but I saw what I saw. I saw the White Walkers. People need to know."

Harry felt chills runs across his spine as he heard the words. He saw the others shift and knew they were listening even more intently now. It wasn't often that these two words were pronounced nowadays, even in the North.

"If you can get word to my family," the deserter was saying, "tell them I'm no coward. Tell them I'm sorry."

Lord Eddard nodded mutely, and Harry had no doubt that he would act on this promise as soon as they were back in Winterfell. Theon approached importantly, holding Lord Eddard's sword, and the man drew Ice from the scabbard, handling the heavy sword as if it were nothing but a butter knife. As he started to say the words that Harry had heard so many times before, the deserter started to pray.

"Don't look away," he heard Jon tell Bran. "Father will know if you do."

The horses neighed in fear when the head fell off. They must be so disgusted by the acts of men, Harry thought. It was truly a wonder horses even allowed men to ride them anymore. Harry patted Cloud's neck gently. The old horse was used to this by now. He had seen much bloodshed in his life.

"You did well," Jon told Bran before walking back to his horse, which was standing next to Harry's.

"He died bravely," said Robb as he reached them. "At least he had courage."

"It was not courage," Jon said softly. "He was afraid. You could see it in his eyes. You heard what he said?" he asked Harry. "About the White Walkers? Do you think he was mad? He must have been mad."

"He didn't seem mad to me," Harry said. "Just afraid."

"These are nothing but old tales," Robb said. "He must have seen a shadow or a beast, or a trick of the light perhaps, and fear made him believe it was something else. We hear all sorts of tales about what lies beyond the Wall. The knowledge alone would be enough to make a man imagine all sorts of things."

"Your uncle Benjen says rangers have been disappearing beyond the Wall," Harry said as he mounted Cloud. "I don't think a trick of the light can be held responsible for that."

"Can we not talk about something cheerier?" Robb asked as he mounted his own horse. "You two are so gloomy all the time. Come on, let's race to the bridge!"

Harry lost the race, unwilling to push Cloud more than necessary. Robb and Jon laughed as he caught up to them.

"Why are you so fond of that old nag?" Robb said, shaking his head. "Don't you grow tired of seeing nothing but other horses' behinds?"

Harry ignored him. "What is that smell?" he asked, sniffing the air. "It's coming from around here."

"Over there, look," Jon said, pointing to a mass slumped on the ground across the bridge.

They waited for the rest of the party to catch up and for Lord Eddard to dismount before they showed him the stag. It was lying dead, its tongue jutting out of its mouth, its entrails forming a thick, smelly pile of reddish mush between its legs. The closer they got, the more overpowering the smell of decay, and the worst the sight. The rest dismounted and approached curiously.

"What is it?" Jon asked, voicing the question on everyone's mind. What in the world could have done this?

"A mountain lion?" Theon suggested.

Lord Eddard shook his head. "There are no mountain lions in these woods," he said, looking at the ground before heading right and down towards the river.

They followed him in a straight line, careful not to trip on the bumpy, half-frozen ground. The beast responsible for the stag's grim fate was lying next to the water in a great heap of grey fur and blood. Harry had never an animal so large before in his life, and his breath caught in his throat as he recognized it for what it was. He had seen drawings of it in a dozen books.

Lord Eddard knelt next to the beast, and that's when they noticed the pups, whimpering as they lingered around their dead mother. Everyone fell silent as they looked on the peculiar sight.

"It's a freak," Theon said, breaking the silence. He sounded almost offended by the sight of it.

"It's a direwolf," Harry almost whispered, but they were all so quiet that everyone heard him.

Lord Eddard nodded, his eyes never leaving the animal. "Tough old beast," he added, yanking the broken antler jutting out from the wolf's throat. "I'm surprised she lived long enough to whelp."

"Maybe she didn't," said Jory Cassel. "I've heard tales... Maybe she was already dead when the pups came."

Born with the dead, Harry thought with a shiver, the worst of luck. But he said nothing.

"There are no direwolves south of the Wall," Robb said, staring unblinkingly at the animal. He was hoping to convince himself rather than the others, it seemed.

"Now there are five," Jon replied. "You want to hold it?" he asked Bran, standing and handing him one of the wolf pups. It whimpered softly as Bran took it.

"Where will they go?" Bran asked suddenly. "Their mother's dead."

"They don't belong down here," Ser Rodrik said from behind them all.

"Better a quick death," Lord Eddard agreed, standing up. "They won't last without their mother."

"Right, give it here," said Theon. He unsheathed his sword, stepped forward and reached out to take the pup from Bran's hands.

"No!" Bran cried, and the pup, as if sensing the danger, started whimpering loudly.

"Put away your blade!" Robb said with a hint of disgust Harry had never heard from him when addressing Theon.

"I take orders from your father, not you!" Theon said back in anger.

"Please, Father," Bran said, begging.

"I'm sorry, Bran..."

"Lord Stark," suddenly said Jon, who had been inspecting the pups intently. "There are five pups. One for each of the Stark children. The direwolf is the sigil of your House. They were meant to have them."

Well played, Harry thought. They all looked at Lord Eddard in silence as he stared at the dead beast thoughtfully. Harry knew he wasn't one for superstitions or omens, but even he couldn't deny this was an odd coincidence.

"You will feed them yourselves," he said finally, as Theon put away his blade begrudgingly. "And you will train them yourselves. Gods help you if you neglect them or brutalize them. These are not dogs to beg for treats and run off at a kick. A direwolf will rip a man's arm off his shoulder as easily as a dog will kill a rat. And know that they might die despite everything you do, and if they die, you'll bury them yourselves."

"They won't die," Robb said. "We won't let them."

Jon picked up the other pups and handed Robb and Harry two pups each.

"What about you?" Bran asked Jon softly.

"I'm not a Stark," Jon said, and Harry knew that these words were painful for him to say. "Get on," he told Bran.

Bran walked away, holding his pup. Harry looked at Jon quietly and was about to speak when he felt something brush against his leg. "Look," he said, turning to see a little bundle of white fur near his boot. "He must have crawled away from the others."

"Or been driven away," Jon said softly, crouching to take a closer look.

"What is it?" Robb asked, turning to see the both of them looking at the ground.

When Jon stood again, he was holding a sixth pup, its fur white as the undisturbed snow, its eyes two red orbs shining with life.

"Ah, the runt of the litter. That one's yours, Snow," Theon said with a smirk before heading back towards his horse.

Jon said nothing, but the look of disbelief on his face said it all.

 

By the time they passed the gates of Winterfell and came to a halt inside the yard, the rest of the Stark children were waiting for them excitedly. Jory and Ser Rodrik, who had been riding ahead, had already announced the news and quite a crowd had gathered there, eager to catch a glimpse of real, living direwolves. Harry had barely dismounted Cloud, which was somewhat difficult when trying not to disturb the two small pups now snuggled comfortably against his chest, that Arya was rushing up to him, her eyes wide and expectant, pushing aside the stableboys who were waiting to take the horse away.

"Is it true, Harry? Is it true that you found direwolves? And is it true we can have the pups? Jory said there were five of them!" she babbled, jumping with excitement.

"Six," Jon said as he dismounted his horse, holding his pup, the little white one, in the crook of one arm. This one, as opposed to the others, had so far stayed completely silent.

"Here you go," Harry said, carefully removing one of the pups from its safe place inside his leather jerkin. "It's a female," he added. She had grey fur and golden eyes.

Arya yelped with joy, holding the pup tightly against her, rubbing her cheek on the fur. "She is so soft!" she said, smiling at Harry.

Rickon laughed loudly as his own pup, which had just been handed over to him by Robb, licked his face with a warm tongue.

"Sansa?" Harry said taking the other wolf, the smallest of all, out of his jerkin. The little creature was half asleep by now.

Sansa had been waiting patiently aside as her siblings received their respective pups, and she walked towards him once her name was called. As always, she acted like a perfect little lady, but Harry could see the eagerness in her eyes. She smiled at him brightly when he handed her the little grey pup.

"She is beautiful," Sansa gasped when the direwolf opened her yellow eyes to stare at her. "Thank you, Harry."

"It's Jon you should be thanking," Harry told her. "He's the one who convinced your father to let them live."

"Thank you, Jon," she said politely, but with the reserve she always used when speaking to her half-brother.

"We should find them some warm milk," Robb said, walking away, surely towards the kitchen. "Come on, all of you, if you don't want them to starve."

"We'll have to think of names, too!" Arya exclaimed, running after him.

"Are you very sad that you didn't get one, Harry?" quietly asked Bran, who hadn't followed the others.

"Of course not," Harry said to comfort him. "The direwolf is the sigil of your House, not mine. It was not meant to be. However, if you ever find a phoenix, you shall let me know, won't you?" he finished with a smile.

"Do you think they really exist?" Bran asked as they headed towards the kitchen after the others.

"I don't know, but until today I had my doubts about direwolves, so the day might come when we find out," Harry replied. He turned to see Lord Eddard heading towards the godswood, as he always did after an execution, and out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of something white in the sky over the maester's tower. "I have to go see Maester Luwin," he told Bran. "I think he has a letter for me."

He headed right towards the Bell Tower, and up the Maester's Turret. He found the old man looking thoughtfully out the window at the hills beyond Winterfell.

"Ah, you're back," the maester said with a smile when he noticed Harry's presence. "Hedwig has just returned."

"I saw her fly by," Harry said, quickly removing his cloak and setting it down on a chair cluttered by a pile of large books.

The snowy owl was perched quietly on the desk and Harry caressed her feathers softly. Last year, as he was walking in the godswood one day, Harry had heard a soft hooting noise from amongst bushes, and there she was, a tiny, delicate feathered creature with a broken wing. He had brought her to Maester Luwin, who had nursed her back to health and tried to set her free, but she kept coming back to Harry every time they sent her away, much to Maester Luwin's amusement. The maester had then wondered if it would be possible to train her to deliver messages like the ravens and decided to try. Hedwig was a clever owl. She learned quickly and Harry had been using her to deliver messages to Benjen Stark, to whom he wrote about once a month. Harry had named her after a legendary witch from the old tales.

"Has she brought anything back?"

"She brought back a long letter just for you," Maester Luwin said, taking a thick parchment out of his long sleeve and handing it to Harry.

Harry tried to hide his eagerness as he took it. A few weeks ago, he had sent Hedwig to Grimmauld Hall with a letter for Sirius Black, who had grown up with his father in Winterfell. Since Maester Luwin had confided in Harry that Sirius Black had offered to take him in after his parents' deaths, Harry had wanted to find out more about the man, and hoped that he might be able to tell him about his parents. He let himself fall into a wooden chair surprisingly free of clutter and opened the letter, breaking the green skull seal of House Black.

 

_Harry,_

_I hope this letter finds you well. I cannot express to you in words the joy your letter brought me. I pictured your face as I read it, or what I imagine your features would look like, with enough of your father in them to remind me of our childhood together. Some moments of it seem so long ago, but others feel to me as if they happened only yesterday. In my mind's eye, I can still see the walls of Winterfell, smell the scents of the godswood and feel the wind from the north upon my cheeks as I felt it then, when I rode with your father in our younger years. Although the loss of your family so early in your life is a tragedy, I am grateful to the gods that you had at least the chance to grow up within those walls, just like your father did before you._

_As per your request for information about James, after having spent years apart during the war, I have seen him in King's Landing when the throne was only just won. He was struck with grief and left shortly thereafter, without farewells or explanations. I later learned that he was heading for Thornfort, where he wedded your mother before returning to Godric's Hollow. I am afraid I have only had the pleasure of seeing his face once after that day, when I visited Godric's Hollow shortly after your brother Alderic was born. You were only a babe still and would not remember meeting me. Since then, I only heard again from him when the news of his tragic end reached Grimmauld Hall._

_As for me, as you might already know, after the war, I returned to Grimmauld Hall, the seat of my father, and shortly thereafter wed a lady from the Westerlands who has since given me two children - Rickard, who was named after Lord Eddard's father, to whom I have always looked up to growing up, and sweet Ethel, my youngest. Rickard is your age, and I can only hope that one day your paths happen to cross and that you will form a bond of friendship as strong as the one I had with your father all those years ago._

_The arrival of your letter reminded me that your sixteenth nameday is coming shortly, and I have taken the liberty to send a rider to Winterfell with a present for you. I remain convinced that, had your father not passed so early, you and I would have been great friends, and offering you a present in honour of what might have been if the fates had been in our favour felt only natural to me. I strongly hope you will find it to your liking. Hopefully, if all goes well, it should arrive in due time._

_Deepest regards,_

_Sirius Black_

Harry read the letter over again and folded it neatly. He was touched by the personal tone of the letter. Sirius Black wrote to him as he would an old friend, as he would his father, but he was disappointed, too. None of what he had been hoping to find out was in there and even if Sirius Black wrote earnestly and with a kind of affection Harry had not been expecting, he had a feeling that the man was hiding something. If Sirius Black and his father had been such good friends, why had they barely kept in touch after the war? Had they gotten into a fight? Or had something happened when Sirius Black visited Godric's Hollow that caused them to part on bad terms?

"You look disappointed," Maester Luwin said, sitting down on a bench next to the window.

Harry sighed. "Oh, I don't know what I was expecting. I don't think there is anything Sirius Black can tell me that I don't already know from what Lord Eddard and Benjen have told me."

"From what I have gathered, your father became a very private man in his later years."

"Yes, I know, but..." Harry shook his head, throwing the letter down on the table carelessly. "Don't you think there could be a reason for that? Why would he push his friends away?"

Maester Luwin smiled sadly. "His whole family was killed while he was sheltered here, powerless and too young to do anything about it. Then Lyanna was taken away, and Brandon and Lord Rickard were killed. Your father's family was killed yet again. The pain he felt then must have been twice as terrible. I think maybe he wanted to start a new life over without the bad memories of his previous one."

Harry sighed again. "Perhaps you're right. Perhaps I'm so eager to find a reason for what happened that I'm now imagining things that never were."

"Have you been having those dreams again?" Maester Luwin asked tentatively.

"Yes," Harry admitted. "I've searched a few books to find out more about them, but couldn't find anything to explain them. All I know is that in Old Valyria, the people thought dreams were prophetic and would always try to act upon them. Only, my dreams don't show me what to do or how to act. They do nothing for me but scare me half to death. There is only this... this man... this faceless thing that creeps in the corners of my mind, it seems, and just waits."

"Waits?" Maester Luwin said curiously. "For what?"

"I don't know. In truth, I'm not sure I want to know," Harry said. "I feel like there must be an explanation for all this hidden somewhere within my reach. I just don't know how to go about finding it." He paused, wondering if he should confide this into the old man. "Lately, I've been thinking about asking Lord Eddard permission to head north to Godric's Hollow. I want to see it with my own eyes. I want to see the place where it happened. Perhaps then I would remember something helpful."

"And you have never talked to him about this before?"

"No, never."

"You know, Harry, some things are sometimes not meant to be remembered," the man said slowly.

Harry sighed. "I had a feeling that's what you might say," he said before crossing his arms over his chest and shutting his eyes for a moment, trying to clear his head. That was what Maester Luwin told him every tie he complained about not being able to remember anything about his past, and it annoyed him to no end. He decided to change the subject. "Sirius Black says he's sending a rider with a nameday present for me," he added, remembering the last part of the letter. "In honour of what might have been if the fates had been in our favour, he says. He seems very odd to me."

"This is not the first time such a thing has been said about a member of House Black," Maester Luwin said.

"So I've heard," Harry agreed. The sun had come out and extended its long, pale rays all over the clutter of books and papers piled up all around the turret.

"Now, what's this I heard about wolf pups?" Maester Luwin asked after a while.

Harry told him all about it and the maester stayed silent for some time after that, lost in deep thought. "A dead stag, and a dead direwolf with a broken antler sticking out of its throat, you said?" he asked then. "That's interesting."

"How so?" Harry asked lazily. He had woken up early and the tiredness caused by his missing hours of sleep was starting to take over.

"There was a raven from King's Landing while you were gone. The news has not been announced yet. Lady Catelyn wanted to inform Lord Eddard first, but the King is coming to Winterfell," Maester Luwin said, tugging at the heavy chain around his neck, like he always did when he was unsettled.

"What?" Harry asked, suddenly very awake. "What for?"

"Jon Arryn has died."

Harry blinked in disbelief. "You think the King wants to ask Lord Eddard to become the new Hand?" he asked.

"I am afraid so," Maester Luwin said, still tugging at his chain. "It would only make sense. Why else would the King travel all this way?"

Harry didn't like the thought of this. If Lord Eddard was named Hand of the King, the whole Stark family would be separated. Surely someone would remain in Winterfell, but the rest would head south. And what would become of him then? The last thing Harry wanted was to go south, but Winterfell wouldn't be the same either, not without Lord Eddard there. He felt a lump forming in his throat at the thought of what all this might entail.

"I should go..." Harry said, standing up. "I have to... I should write a reply to this letter and... and other things."

Maester Luwin watched him go with a sad smile.

 

Harry spent the rest of the day in his chambers, lying on his bed in a ray of sunshine, lost in his thoughts, and like always, staring at the banner on the wall. He could hear laughter from outside as Bran, Rickon, and Arya ran around with their wolf pups. The news of the king's arrival must be known to all by then, and he expected Jon would seek him out soon to inform him of this, but he had so far remained undisturbed.

Just as this thought crossed his mind, there was a knock at the door. Harry groaned lazily in response and turned his head towards it, expecting Jon to walk in, but it wasn't him.

"Harry?" Lord Eddard said. "Can I come in?"

Harry straightened up, taken by surprise. "Yes, of course."

Lord Eddard shut the door behind him and came to sit down at the end of Harry's bed.

"I'm sorry," Harry said softly. "Maester Luwin told me about Lord Arryn. I know you were very close to him. I'm very sorry that he died."

"Thank you, Harry," Lord Eddard said with a sad smile. "Maester Luwin must have told you about the King as well. He is bringing half his court and they are already on their way. The whole of Winterfell will be in complete chaos for the next few weeks until they arrive, so I wanted to take the time to give you this before I become too busy and risk forgetting your nameday."

For the first time, Harry noticed what Lord Eddard had carried into the room. It was a scabbard made from blackened leather, fit for a longsword, and he was handing it to Harry with a smile.

"For me?" Harry asked, almost hesitant to take it. He had been hoping to receive a sword for his nameday, but had forgotten all about it with everything that had happened with Theon, the wolf pups, and now the King's visit.

"As is tradition for highborns when they come of age," Lord Eddard said with a nod. "Surely your father would have gifted you with one if he was still alive, and I thought fit to offer you with one in his stead."

Harry took it. He had been hoping for this moment, but had refused to let himself expect it with too much certainty. Now that it was truly happening, now that he was receiving his very first sword, he couldn't find the right words to say.

"Go on," Lord Eddard said, chuckling. "Take a look."

Harry smiled as he slid the sword out of its scabbard. It was beautiful, and clearly Mikken's work, as he had suspected. The steel blade shone in the sunshine coming in through the window, its light reflecting on the walls all around. He didn't need to touch the edge to know how sharp it was, and it was the hilt that truly attracted attention.

"I wanted you to have something similar to your grandfather's sword," said Lord Eddard.

"Smoke," Harry said. The sword had travelled to King's Landing with Lord Harold Potter and either burned with him or was forged into Aerys Targaryen's throne with all the others.

"Yes. It was impossible to recreate, of course. One cannot make a Valyrian steel greatsword anymore. According to the old records, Smoke had a pommel of white ivory, but Mikken and I decided that this would suit you better."

"Obsidian," Harry said.

The hilt of the sword was elegantly carved and embedded with the shining black material commonly called dragonglass. The grip was black leather, and the crossguard extended and curved, shaped like two majestic wings. The pommel, also carved in shiny obsidian, was shaped like the head of a phoenix similar to the ivory one Smoke must have had. Long tendrils of feathers twisted down from the crossguard, blending the hilt and blade together in delicate carvings.

Harry was speechless. "Mikken did this?" he said dumbly.

Lord Eddard chuckled again. "Yes. This is his best work, without a doubt. But we both thought it was worth the effort. This is, after all, the new sword of House Potter. Someday, you will pass it on to your heir."

"I... I don't know what to say," Harry said finally, looking up at Lord Eddard. "You've done so much for me, and then... this."

"Just say thank you. That ought to be enough," Lord Eddard said, looking bemused.

"Thank you."

He patted Harry's cheek gently before standing. "I should go see what's become of those wolf pups," he said before leaving. "And don't forget to give it a name."

Harry stared at the sword for a long time after Lord Eddard had left. A name, he thought. All the great swords had names. He had long hoped for his own sword but had never thought what he would name it when the moment came.

He felt old all of a sudden, and for the first time the realization hit him. Although he didn't feel like it despite how many people kept repeating it to him, he was a Lord. At not yet sixteen years of age, he was Lord of House Potter, or whatever was left of it. He had no castle or vassals, not for now, at least, but still the title came with a certain responsibility to honour the ancestors who had lived before him, and with a certain respect from other highborns. Maybe that was why Theon despised him so much, because even though he had nothing but smoking ruins, he still had the deference that came with the title...

In his empty, sunlit room, Harry smiled. Who would have thought that Theon Greyjoy, with all his hateful taunting, would be the one to inadvertently name his sword? Surely he would be furious when he found out.

"Ashes," Harry whispered in the silence, turning the sword over in his hands. As soon as the name was out, he knew he had picked the right one.

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
